Weam Namou

Some call it pomegranate
Others Indian apple
Mother calls it rumman

She slices it into halves
and serves it as though it’s lamb,
on a large silver tray with a floral design

The children, chin within the tray’s circle, bite the fruit
Crimson juice drips on the metal, tablecloth,
one’s blouse, pajama sleeve, nightgown’s ruffle.

Individual bits fall and get scooped
Hair strands are removed, curled around the ear while
beneath the chandelier, thin and full lips crunch and chew

When all that’s left are shells and peels,
red stained hands reach for soap and water.
Everyone then lies on the rug, heel to heel

They say hmmm, how good that was
point out who was messy, greedy,
complain that the boy’s portions had more seeds, were extra juicy

Hands inside the pockets of her summer dress,
mother lies, “to me, boy or girl – makes no difference”
With a smile, she walks away to her recess

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